


The Still of the Night

by JFoxtrotSierra



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JFoxtrotSierra/pseuds/JFoxtrotSierra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>St. Petersburg, missing scene: <i>He's fairly sure Martin </i>hasn't<i> been in stickier situations, and Douglas thinks perhaps he might appreciate some company.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Still of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Raven for beta and encouragement.

_“Martin, do you want me to land it?” He can hear the concern in Douglas's voice; after all, he_ is _the better pilot. And Martin's_ this _close to ceding control, to letting Douglas take care of it. But Martin's the_ Captain _, damn it. Anyway, he_ can _do it, he knows all the theory, it's just the practice he's a bit short on, and he won't get any of that by letting Douglas handle it._

_“No, I’ll do it.” If Douglas notices the slight tremor in his voice, he doesn't say anything, only assents and sits almost silently while Martin concentrates._

\---

After the post-landing checks - which Douglas performs with unusual quiescence - Douglas sits for a moment. He's been in stickier situations, certainly, but still. To say that wasn't a pleasant experience, is, he feels, an understatement. When he looks up from his pondering, Martin has gone, slipped out silently without, Douglas notices, his gloves. In the cabin, Douglas can hear Arthur and Carolyn, the one trying desperately to describe a potentially fatal air incident as anything other than 'brilliant!'; the other hiding her feelings quite well, Douglas thinks with professional judgement, under snappishness and sarcasm.

Shrugging on his jacket, Douglas steels himself to step out of the plane. It's even worse than he remembers, the bitterly cold wind ripping through his jacket, but he hasn't got time to find out where Arthur stowed his coat. He's fairly sure Martin _hasn't_ been in stickier situations, and Douglas thinks perhaps he might appreciate some company. Perhaps not; he did rush off to be alone, after all, but in any case, Arthur has also stowed _Martin's_ coat, and Douglas knows it would only be Martin's luck - and his foolhardiness, he amends - to end up with hypothermia or frostbite on top of everything else.

\---

He finds Martin under the wing. His hat is lying innocently on the tarmac, the reflection of the sun off the gold braid outdone, for once, by the sparkling ice which surrounds it. As Douglas rounds GERTI's tail, he sees Martin, one elbow propping him up against the plane - and Douglas thanks God Martin hasn't been stupid enough to use his bare hand; they're running out of vodka - while the other clutches his stomach as he retches.

Douglas clears his throat. Martin starts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he turns.

"Douglas, just, erm, just checking on poor old GERTI, j-just, you know, checking-" 

He fiddles anxiously, reaching up to adjust his hat before realising it's not there. He changes the motion at the last minute, casually scratching his head. "E-everything all right?"

"You know, Martin, you're _almost_ as bad at lying as Arthur. Not quite, I'll grant you, but almost." Douglas offers Martin a handkerchief, and something in his eyes takes the sting out of his barbed words.

Martin flushes, wiping his pale forehead with the handkerchief before scrubbing at his mouth. He offers it back to Douglas, who raises an eyebrow. Martin flushes further - it clashes quite beautifully with his hair - and stuffs the handkerchief into a pocket.

"Thanks," he mutters, retrieving his hat as an excuse to avoid Douglas's eyes.

"You did really well, you know, Martin. That was a tricky landing."

Martin shifts, awkwardly. "You'd have done better."

"Well, of course," Douglas smiles broadly, "I rather thought that went without saying." He pauses, reaching out to touch Martin's arm. "You really did do very well, though," he says. “You should be proud.”

Martin won't meet Douglas's eyes; his shoulder beneath Douglas's hand is tense and hard, but Douglas knows this isn't the time to press him. Later, maybe; for now, Martin is wound tight with tension and fear and the need not to let anyone else see, not to appear vulnerable, or weak. Douglas won't make it harder for him.

They head back into GERTI, Martin agreeing under protest to let Douglas go with Carolyn to inspect GERTI. Martin himself is sent with Arthur to the airport lounge, the latter under strict instructions to find Martin a nice, hot cup of coffee, and somewhere warm to sit.

\---

When they get back to their room that night - finally, after hours of waiting and machinations and cheering Arthur up (which was something neither of them ever expected to be necessary) Martin is still tense. Douglas can see it in the way he twitches at unexpected noises, eyes wide like a startled deer. It's there in the unaccustomed silence with which they get ready for bed, the rigid stance of his shoulders, the way, until it's removed, Martin reaches up to adjust his Captain's hat ever more frequently.

They lie in bed - Douglas still doesn't know if Carolyn books them a room with a double bed nowadays out of cheapness, or well-founded suspicions - and Douglas wonders whether or not to switch off the light. He glances over at Martin, his face in profile as he stares at the ceiling.

“Martin?” he asks, “are you ... OK?”

Martin nods stiffly. Douglas sighs. Martin is too used to being on his own, too used to hiding his vulnerability from everyone for fear - all too often justified - that it will be used against him. But Douglas - Martin surely knows, by now, that Douglas would never use something like this for later ammunition. Would never purposefully hurt Martin.

“You don't have to pretend, you know,” he murmurs, hand reaching for Martin's under the duvet. “Not here, not with me.”

Martin squeezes his hand tightly, and Douglas can feel him trembling with repressed anxiety and fear.

“Martin,” Douglas breathes, squeezing back as comfortingly as he knows how, and suddenly Martin is in Douglas's arms, face pressed to his shoulder, gasping, while hands clutch at the fabric of his pajamas.

“Shh,” Douglas murmurs softly, wrapping his arms around Martin's shoulders. “We're ok. We're all ok.”

“I- I'm sorry, Douglas, it's just - I thought we were going to _die_ and I thought, what if I can't do it, what if I mess it up like everything else, and- and-” Martin whispers incoherantly into Douglas's chest.

“Shh,” Douglas rubs Martin's shoulder, “you did fine, just fine.” Martin clings to Douglas like he's a lifebelt, the only thing keeping Martin afloat. Douglas holds him close, murmuring softly to Martin, wordless noises of comfort.

He waits, patiently, for Martin's breathing to slow, for the shuddering gasps to give way to occasional hiccuping sighs. He rubs soothing circles on Martin's back, presses his lips to the damp ginger curls. Eventually, Martin's grip loosens, the tension gradually draining from his body.

Martin shifts, moving to lay his hand on Douglas's chest. He looks up, eyes red and heavy with fatigue, a weak half-smile on his lips as he yawns. (Douglas thinks he has never looked so beautiful.)

“Shall I turn out the light?”

Martin nods. In the quiet darkness, Douglas listens to Martin's breathing, hears it slow and steady, quieting further until Douglas thinks Martin must be almost asleep.

“Martin?” Nothing. “I love you,” he breathes. He hasn't said it before, not to Martin, anyway, but it feels _right_. Silence, again, and he thinks Martin must be asleep after all. Then his hand moves on Douglas's chest, and Martin murmurs sleepily, “I love you, too.”


End file.
